


flying cathedrals

by orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Developing Relationship, Discussions of Japanese Internment Camps, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship, Getting Together, Introspection, Libraries, M/M, Mention of cancer, POV Keith, Struggling College Graduate Keith, Struggling Writer Keith, Writer Allura, Writer Keith, Writer Shiro, Writing groups, comforting writing environments, internet correspondence, obscure literary references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 15:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Keith doesn’t expect to meet the love of his life in a writing group.





	flying cathedrals

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.

Keith hasn’t touched his manuscript in days.

Technically, it’s not a manuscript. It’s a half-baked imitation of Mervyn Peake at his most zany; the plot revolves around a flying cathedral doubling as a library catering to worshipful followers of a dying ideology. A monk employed in the scriptorium loses his shit, destroying every ancient scroll in his path. He then undergoes a religious epiphany that Lance read as an acid trip. Thus, the world ends.

After Lance had delivered his underwhelmed verdict, Keith had shoved it in the annals of his crammed bottom drawer. There it sits, doubtlessly growing mould by the hour, smothered by frantically inked sticky notes tacked onto stapled rejections from countless literary journals. 

Checking Twitter for the sixteenth time in fifteen minutes, Keith reads an earnest post from a writer he follows. They’d followed him back at 4:30 in the morning. He pretends he doesn’t want to message them about the last twenty-six years of his life before asking them why the fuck they had spared him their attention over sleep.

He hears their post in what he imagines is their impassioned, entreating voice:

_Join writing groups, friends. I know; you don’t want to share your work with writers who might belittle your valiant efforts to put yourself out there. But believe me, you might meet someone who believes in your stories. Go._

Keith says, “You fucking the TA in your MFA program or what?”

Maybe that’s the case. Nevertheless, he can’t escape the possibility of meeting someone who shares his sensibilities when it comes to his particular finesse for writing. Maybe, Gods willing, he can finally meet another writer who cares about subverting tropes with the same frightening devotion.

The last time he’d joined a writing group, he’d fought their moderator. Months of grueling exercises followed by tortuous workshops proved Keith excelled far beyond the mandated threshold upheld by everyone in the group with the exception of their mentor, Lotor.

Despite Lotor’s abundant prowess, the group soon realised Keith offered an invaluable expertise, not to mention a burgeoning passion for editing. His groupmates proceeded to bypass Lotor’s intimidating criteria for greatness altogether, preferring Keith’s relentless yet honest approach to the loneliest craft. 

Through nefarious means that haunt Keith’s darkest spirals, Lotor learned of his myriad rejections from literary journals scattered across the US. 

Safe with the knowledge that Keith’s precocious worldbuilding didn’t ensure incurable awe on account of his editors, that freed Lotor up to submit an unforgettable short story shared in the writing group’s Google drive. He’d changed the name in the right hand corner from Keith Kogane with a smug smirk. 

One month later, Lotor won a full-ride scholarship to the most prestigious graduate writing program in the nation with a story titled _The Paladin’s Lion, or Devotion._ That same month, Keith stopped attending the writing group. Eventually, he grew to hate writing.

During his seventh month of therapy, Lance, his roommate of two years at the time, introduced him to a weird trilogy called _Gormenghast_. The series centred around a castle. Peake orchestrated his books in the singular style of a raving genius. 

Keith threw himself at the concept of developing buildings into fully fledged characters. He bought new notebooks, quickly filling them with copious dreams inspired by staggering piles of library books checked out in frenzied spurts that Lance called Keith’s “Antiquated orgasms.” He invested in a large, gorgeous typewriter from the 1940’s that did not leave its box. 

Apart from complaining about the incessant banging long into the early morning, Lance left him to his novel which quickly became more than a novel.

Lately, it’s become his life.

Staring at his phone, Keith words his future DM to the writer who may or may not be fucking their grad school TA when Lance pokes his head around the side of the bedroom door.

“Did you happen to catch the flyer on the far right wall at Allura’s?”

Readjusting his swivel chair, Keith blinks once. He hasn’t hung out in Lance’s girlfriend’s apartment in months.

“No? You probably did last night, but you think I did because you always think I did things with you when you’re sleep-deprived.”

“God. It’s a writing jam; that’s the jist of it. The flyer came off as super inviting: all levels welcome, no pressure to share, emphasis on comfort. Oh, and here’s the kicker; the organiser’s a graduate of Le Dickhead’s program. Might wanna give you some tips on how to _own_ his ass.”

That’s all it takes for Keith to disown any prior wishes of attending any such meeting. Fwicking his ponytail, he shakes his head hard.

Plaintively, something shaking in his eyes, Lance says, “I’ll go with you. If you’re having fun, I’ll head out. Till then, you’re stuck with me, and I’m gonna make damn sure no one fucks with your head.”

“Why don’t _you_ join?”

Scoffing, Lance paces the length of Keith’s weathered carpet. 

“I’m no writer, dude. Try it. Don’t do it for me; do it for yourself. If you hate it, you can blame me till I earn enough to finally fly us out to Japan again.”

Shredding a hole through his dark jeans, Keith scrapes at the charcoal nail polish adorning the fingers of his left hand. Sometimes he forgets how much his friendship with Lance matters to him. To date, Lance is his only friend who has ever accepted Keith’s grandparents’ offer to host their grandson and a friend of his choosing in their apartment in Osaka.

“You win this round, Lance.”

Beaming, Lance pumps his fist in the air. Keith is overcome with an irrational desire to tear off his dark tank and fling it at Lance’s head. 

“My man. You’re the best, Keith!”

Scowling, Keith yanks his bottom drawer open. 

“Don’t forget what you promised.”

“And in return, you better not forget about owing me something besides a pedantic religious treatise disguised as a sci-fi novel.”

“What?”

“Figure it out. You’re the writer, bro.”

Yawning, Lance gives Keith’s door two amiable punches before loping out into the hallway, probably grabbing one of his smoothies before he passes out. He usually eats breakfast as his first and last meal of the day.

Keith says, “Right behind you, pal.”

Shoving crusts of prior dreams from his eyes he stares at the dark screen mesmerising his senses, finally penning his first message to black lionS.

_I’m fucking scared of befriending writers. Can you help me out?_

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project (including the LLF Comment Builder), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:  
> Short comments  
> Long comments  
> Questions  
> “<3” as extra kudos  
> Reader-reader interaction  
> This author replies to comments.


End file.
